Monday Morning Poem: Hope is the thing with feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me.

Note: Each March, just when winter seems endless, I watch for the return to Connecticut of the red winged blackbirds. The males arrive first, to claim their territory, and it always gives my heart a lift to see one or more perched upon the highest branches of the trees. This year, there seem to be fewer……